


pushing buttons

by hobbitual



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dysfunctional Relationships, Foot Fetish, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is really fucking mean, M/M, Violence, but Brock gets him back for it, for like one paragraph, sort of, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitual/pseuds/hobbitual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>aaaaaaangst >:^) ive had enough of fluff!</p><p>warning for what can be construed as physical abuse here. jack doesnt mean to hurt brock but he certainly does so please use discretion!</p><p>thank you reading and please enjoy chapter one! id love to know what you think :^)</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нажимая на кнопки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8761582) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> aaaaaaangst >:^) ive had enough of fluff!
> 
> warning for what can be construed as physical abuse here. jack doesnt mean to hurt brock but he certainly does so please use discretion!
> 
> thank you reading and please enjoy chapter one! id love to know what you think :^)

“How the hell – how do you jump?!”

“A. Green button, can't miss it. Hasn't changed in the past hour, either.”

Brock makes a tsk noise, squinting down at his controller. This proves to be a mistake when his character gets blown up on screen not five seconds later. Brock gives an outraged squawk and Jack feels a vein pulse in his temple.

They're playing Black Ops for a change of pace. Jack's got a bit of a video game collection with no discrimination between genres; Elder Scrolls for open world, Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat for fighting and Call of Duty for a first person shooter. It's a good way to blow off some steam, immersing yourself in another world to forget about daily responsibilities for a while. In a perfect world, Jack thinks, Brock would appreciate the escapism. But, of course –

“This is fucking ridiculous. This should _not_ be this hard. Did you get someone to hack the fucking – oh my god, this is bullshit!”

Jack breathes deeply out of his nose. “No,” he says, tone clipped and tailored so as not to give away his irritation. “It's not hard, it's hand-eye coordination. You're tellin' me you don't know how to shoot a gun?”

“Of course I know how to shoot a fucking gun, shut the fuck up,” Brock spits. He clenches the controller and Jack swears he can hear the plastic creaking. “You think this is _realistic_? This is fucking stupid –”

Jack misses the rest of Brock's sentence. His ears are ringing, the pulsing in his temple getting more violent with every passing second. He pinches the bridge of his nose, making an attempt at controlled, even breaths. It's starting to work, the ringing in his ears subsiding, until he hears “bullshit” and “completely unfair” and Jack just sees _red_.

Jack stands in one fluid motion. His gaze locks onto Brock who's waving the controller around, not yet aware that Jack isn't patiently absorbing all of his incessant complaining. He's in front of Brock in two long strides, halting any movement by taking hold of Brock's wrist and clamping his fingers tightly around the delicate bones. Brock squeaks, cut off mid-sentence by the sudden pain. Jack doesn't register any of it, forcefully pulling the controller out of Brock's grasp with his other hand.

As Jack turns off the console with the button in the center of the controller, he feels a solid weight almost colliding with his left side. This time, Brock's voice gets through.

“That _hurts_ , asshole! Fucking stop and let _go!_ ”

Jack still has his fingers around Brock's wrist. He'd accidentally pulled and swung Brock around when he turned to the television screen. He's holding onto Brock's wrist so hard his knuckles are white and Brock's skin is red – it might bruise. The realization that Jack hurt Brock, left a mark they didn't agree on, is enough to calm the roiling storm of emotions in Jack. But Brock is pushing at Jack's shoulder, struggling to pull his wrist out of Jack's hold and he's shouting. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Let the fuck go!”

Jack finally lets go, causing Brock to almost lose his balance. Brock opens his mouth, ready to shout at Jack for that and everything else, but Jack beats him to the punch.

“What the fuck is wrong with _me_? You're jokin', right? There's something wrong with _me_.” Jack barks out a laugh, harsh and grating. It sounds like glass crunching underfoot. His mouth contorts into a twisted, unrecognizable version of his own smile.

“You're a real fuckin' piece of work, ain't ya? You can't learn. You _won't_ learn. I've always gotta do everything, put you through everything, hold your fuckin' hand through every goddamn thing. Let you win, let you feel good about yourself even when you don't deserve it in the least. I let you bitch and whine, I even let you cry – at your fuckin' age, isn't that somethin'? You're fuckin' pathetic. Fifty years old and you need daddy to hold your hand, tell you it's gonna be okay, sweetheart.” Jack runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes; he's running out of steam now. “It's time to grow up, Rumlow, Christ's sake.”

Brock has stopped shouting now. He hadn't made a single noise of complaint from the second Jack had started his harsh monologue. The only reason Jack knows Brock is still there with him is the sound of his breathing in the now silent room, soft compared to the rough and almost panting quality of Jack's own breath. When Jack opens his eyes, he's shocked into breathlessness.

Brock looks absolutely _stricken_. His eyes are so wide Jack can see the whites, all of the color is drained out of his face making him look pale and sick. His eyebrows are drawn, like he's confused, and Jack is so used to seeing his brow furrowed in anger that it's jarring and uncomfortable. He's never seen Brock look so hurt, never had Brock look at him like he's had his heart ripped out like this –

And it hits him. Everything he'd said to Brock comes back, crashes over him like a wave; the longer he looks at Brock, the worse he feels for losing his temper.

There's a palpable tension in the air. Brock is still looking at Jack the same way, and Jack can't take much more of those pained hazel eyes. He takes a step forward.

“Brock, I'm sorry –“

Brock starts at that, taking a reflexive step backward like Jack's voice is a threat. He starts to bring his arms up to hug his middle, but he stops halfway and lets them fall limply back into place by his sides. From there, Brock's countenance changes completely. His eyes harden, gaze shifting from openly wounded to steely and cold. His jaw tightens, teeth clenched. He draws his shoulders back and balls his fists, staring at Jack with an expression that is entirely closed off. Jack only ever sees him like this when they're working, when Brock has to shut off his emotions to get their job done.

“I wasn't thinkin',” Jack tries again, desperately searching for the right thing to say. “The game is frustratin' for me too, losin' so many times, I – where are you goin'? Brock!”

Brock is halfway to the front door. He doesn't turn when Jack calls his name, grabbing his shoes and not wasting the time to put them on before he's opening the door into the hallway.

“Don't you turn your goddamn back on me, boy,” Jack snarls, catching up with Brock as he steps into the hallway. “Listen – Brock! God fucking damn it!”

Brock bolts through the doorway into the hall, dodging out of Jack's reach. Jack tries to step out after him but Brock pushes the door closed in Jack's face, making him curse as he almost wrenches the doorknob clean off in his haste to get the door open again.

The next Jack sees of Brock, he's sprinting down the hallway, shoes in hand. He pushes the door to the stairwell open, hard enough it slams into the concrete wall of the stairwell. Jack sees a flash of him going down the steps, two at a time, until the door shuts itself and Jack is alone in the hallway.

Jack scrapes a hand through his hair, clenching his eyes shut and pulling at the strands. He stays like that, motionless and just breathing, grounding himself by the sharp pain in his scalp. After a few minutes pass, he calmly steps back into his apartment. The door clicks shut, and there's nothing left but silence.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more angst because im terrible >:^) 
> 
> things get pretty violent here, and that makes up most of the latter half of the chapter. as always, please use discretion!
> 
> thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy :D

They don't talk for two days.

Jack wakes up the morning after Brock ran out of his apartment, waiting a grand total of three minutes before he checks his phone to see if Brock texted him – even just to make up for any bitching left unsaid. His phone's lock screen is blank. The concept of waiting for texts from Brock at all is foreign; they're together so much they rarely ever need to rely on any technology to communicate.

Studiously ignoring the left side of his bed, Jack begins his before-work routine. He tells himself he appreciates the peace and quiet; there's no waking up to the sound of a hair dryer two feet next to him, plenty of hot water left in the shower, and the bathroom isn't being commandeered until there's five minutes left before it's time to leave.

He can't look at himself in the mirror, but there's no one to notice.

*

The drive to work is more of the same – there's no bootprints to wipe off the dashboard. The radio dial stays untouched, Jack favoring silence over top 40's radio, anyway. He stays under the speed limit, having left for work on time for once. The steering wheel staying stationary in Jack's hands is the best part, really.

Jack makes it to work with no problems. It's hours before he even catches a glimpse of Brock. He gets a lot of overdue paperwork done in the meantime.

When they do see each other, it's far from anything to write home about. Brock hardly spares Jack a glance. They exchange words, entirely work-related, perfunctory and cold. Brock's tone is one Jack hasn't heard directed at him since they first met. Brock leaves as soon as he's gotten what he needs. Jack thinks it's good of Brock to be professional.

*

They're on lunch break and Jack is unbearably bored. He's sat behind a desk, twirling a paperclip around with the tip of a pen. He's had use of the office chair the whole time he's been here and the papers on the desk are in order, none of them crumpled from anyone unceremoniously sitting on the surface of the desk. No bootprints on his pants from feet in his lap, either.

Jack decides to take a walk.

*

He's made his way through every hallway of the facility. His legs get cramped under a desk for too long, and it's nice to see familiar faces. Most of them steer clear of him within the first few moments of contact but everyone's got a job to do.

Jack makes it to one of the doors leading outside, to the back of the building, and the fresh air is enough to immediately cool his head. He steps out into the sunshine, taking in his surroundings. Concrete walls, windows spaced evenly, chain link fence around the perimeter –

And Brock.

He's got his head down, focused on his phone. His thumbs are flying across the screen, he's obviously texting someone, Jack's got no idea who, but – that's not really of the utmost importance here. There's a lit cigarette between Brock's index and pointer fingers. Jack watches as the smoke makes its lazy ascent into the sky, trailing off into nothing. It's half gone, and there's a medium sized head of ash on the end. Brock pauses in texting to lift it to his mouth, taking a long drag and letting the smoke collect in his lungs before slowly blowing it out through parted lips. He uses his thumb to flick the ash onto the pavement. Jack watches as a gust of wind carries the flakes of burnt tobacco, skittering them across the ground.

“You can stop staring now,” Brock says, breaking Jack out of his focus. Jack tenses, eyes narrowed. Brock's tone makes him sound like a teenager, catty and rude. The fact that he's gone back to texting whoever is on the other end of the conversation just adds to it.

“So now I exist, huh?” Jack says, earning a snort from Brock. The harsh sound does nothing for Jack's fraying patience; it feels like he's a thread away from losing it all. “We're goin' to talk about last night.”

“There's nothing to talk about,” Brock says, voice empty of emotion. “You said what you wanted to say. Bet you were holding onto that one for a while.” Brock looks up at Jack, fire in his eyes. “I guess you forgot about respecting your elders?”

Jack is left speechless, breath caught in his throat at Brock's sheer gall. Whatever Brock sees in his face must be amusing – he snorts again, smirking and shaking his head as he brings the cigarette back up to his mouth for another drag.

That's when Jack's patience snaps, final thread breaking in what feels like a shower of sparks in his brain. He takes several long legged strides up to Brock, ready to grab him by the scruff of the neck and tell him what exactly _respecting your elders_ means in this situation.

Before he can get close enough, there's a sudden burst of pain in his right cheekbone. He sees stars for a few seconds, the skin of his cheek feeling like it's been split open. The bone underneath is aching, and he can taste blood. Before his vision can clear, there's more pain – this time it feels like his shoulder is about to be dislocated. As he finally regains his sight, Jack can see Brock's got his arm twisted like he's aiming to rip it from its socket. The cigarette is clamped between his teeth and it looks like he's grinning, the fire from moments before dancing in his eyes.

Jack tries to speak but there's blood pooling in his mouth. It feels like a tooth is loose and he's going to have to spit before he can make any attempt at coherent speech. But Brock catches him off guard a third time, and there's pain again, but it's worse than his twisted arm by far, it's _burning_ , he can feel his flesh searing, and Brock's got the fucking cigarette pushed into the palm of Jack's hand. He crushes it as far as it'll go, still grinning, and the whiteness of his teeth is almost as blinding as the pain is white hot. Jack clenches his jaw, refusing to cry out, and now he's absolutely knocked a tooth loose.

Brock releases his hold on Jack's arm, allowing Jack to pull away and get a look at the damage done to his palm. There's a circular burn, red hot and flecked with bits of black and white ash. It's still burning like a hot iron, making Jack's eyes water against his will.

Jack looks up, locking gazes with Brock. The fire is in Brock's eyes still, but it's subdued. Less of a roaring blaze now, but still crackling and spitting flames. Brock is panting just as hard as Jack, his expression a mixture of fury and scorn – but Jack knows Brock's face better than anyone's. There's guilt buried deep in his eyes, and Jack doesn't know if it's for last night, or now, or for every time Brock has stepped on Jack's last nerve and gotten away with it scot-free. Perhaps it's all of the above.

Jack blinks, and the guilt he'd seen is gone in a split second. He watches as Brock, holding the mangled yet still lit cigarette, takes a final drag before throwing it off to the side. He lets the smoke collect in his lungs again, hazel eyes locked and unwavering on Jack's own green gaze. He exhales the smoke again, this time from his nose. Jack watches as the plumes of smoke shoot angrily from Brock's nostrils, trailing off and dissipating into nothing.

Jack opens his mouth to speak, unsure of what he could possibly say, but Brock turns on his heel and stomps towards the door. He kicks it open, using the full force of his legs – they're short, but every bit as muscular as the rest of him. The door swings open, and Brock strides through the doorway. Jack watches as the door swings shut, dented now from the impact of Brock's boot against the metal.

There's a clatter, a stuttered apology.

“ _Get the fuck out of my way!”_ Brock bellows, echoing in the hallway and through the closed door. There's a sound of scrambling on tile and a new recruit comes stumbling out, white as a sheet and trailing papers that flutter out of the doorway, picked up by the wind.

Jack and the recruit lock eyes, sharing a moment of solidarity in the face of Brock's wrath.

When Jack breaks the eye contact, he spits out a mouthful of blood onto the concrete. He fishes around in his mouth for the loose tooth, pulling it out with reckless force. He looks at it for a few seconds and tosses it in the direction Brock had thrown the cigarette butt.

*

That night, Jack lays on the left side of his bed. He's hopelessly turned on, breathing heavily in the dark as he thinks about Brock's utter _rage_ that afternoon. He takes his cock in hand, but quickly lets go when the burn on his palm gets agitated and sends a flare of pain up his wrist. He puts his right arm behind his head and makes do with his left.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here is the final chapter :^) a little bit of a bittersweet ending i guess and i apologize in advance for that. i hope its satisfying and id love to know what you thought! thank you for reading and please enjoy :^)

The next day, they don't see each other at all.

If Jack were to play Devil's advocate, he'd say it's a coincidence. There _are_ days where they don't see each other until after work, and sometimes Brock doesn't make it to Jack's apartment until late, tired enough to practically fall into Jack's arms once he's opened his front door.

He knows it's not a coincidence.

The day goes by painfully slowly, nothing to do but wait. As an attempt to quell the building irritation he's feeling, Jack goes down to the gun range to shoot a few rounds, but the burn on his palm is far from healed and the friction of metal against charred flesh is too much to ignore. He grits his teeth at the pain, causing the entire right side of his face to flare up in agony as the bruised and tender skin of his cheek is pulled.

When it's time to clock out, Jack takes the long way down to the parking lot. He almost doesn't expect to see Brock's car, but there's no other way he would have gotten to work without Jack. It's a candy apple red Toyota Camry; Brock keeps it at his own place more often than not now. It's parked almost on the opposite side of the lot, as far from Jack's spot as possible. Seeing it now, a memory comes unbidden into Jack's mind – when Jack had first seen Brock's car, he'd made a quip about being surprised there wasn't a phone book on the driver's seat so Brock could see out of the windshield. He'd almost gotten tackled for that, but easily caught Brock in his arms and ruffled his hair. They were just friends at that point, had only known each other for a few weeks, but Jack remembered how he wouldn't have minded pushing Brock back against the hood of his car, pinning his wrists down and nipping that sharp tongue with sharper teeth.

Jack shakes himself out of his reverie, inwardly cursing at his own wistfulness. He gets into his own car, fishing his keys out of his pocket with a little more force than necessary. If Brock wants to waste five minutes walking across the lot out of sheer pettiness, Jack could not possibly care less.

Tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel, Jack attempts to put a halt to any thoughts of Brock and this entire situation. All that does is magnify the throbbing in his cheek until it's all he can focus on, anyway – he wouldn't be able to think about Brock if he wanted to. Jamming his key into the ignition, Jack sighs and clenches his eyes shut against the sickening pain. There's only one way to fix this.  
  
He's going to get really fucking drunk.  
  
  
*  
  
  
By the time he gets back to his apartment, he's stumbling drunk.

He'd spent the better part of five hours at a bar, steadily drinking until he'd finished off a full bottle of whiskey. Usually sticking to beer, he'd opted for something stronger; the pain in his cheek was growing unbearable and the ever-present scowl he's been sporting since arriving at work that morning hadn't helped matters.

Now, he's somewhat regretting that choice. He can walk in more or less a straight line, but his head is swimming and if he doesn't sit down soon he's probably going to fall flat on his face and pass out right there.

It's a relief when he makes it to his front door. Getting his key into the lock is another story, and he has to stop fumbling with it to rest his head against the cool wood and just breathe. He hasn't thought about Brock since the alcohol had taken effect, and he's grateful for that – until he realizes the irony of that thought and groans.

Trying again with the key, Jack manages it in one smooth motion. He's still resting his head against the door, and it's a second too late before he realizes – next thing he knows he's face-down on the floor, bruised cheek feeling like someone poured gasoline on it and lit a match. Several attempts to get back up go by, ending with Jack in a more favorable position, flipped over with his back against the floor. He sees the door's been open the entire time and kicks it shut.

All of the excess movement has got Jack's stomach churning, the full bottle of whiskey making a valiant attempt at coming back up. He takes a few steadying breaths, still on the floor, craning his head back to look up at the ceiling. The apartment is still dark, with Jack not having been able to turn a light on with the way he had come in. He scans the upside down room, trying to gauge the distance of the lamp beside the armchair, when he sees a flash of movement.

As Jack's still trying to puzzle out how there could be movement by the armchair when he's on the floor, the lamp clicks on.

“How in the goddamn – Christ,” Jack starts, but he has to clench his eyes shut against the blinding glare of the lamp.

“Nice to see you too, asshole.”

Brock is curled up on the armchair, sitting length ways with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looks smaller than usual, Jack thinks, and that's when he notices Brock is wearing one of his sweaters. It's blue with slim white stripes, and one Jack never wears anymore; it's too small on his shoulders and chest so he'd just thrown it in the closet and never really looked at it since. On Brock, it'd be a near perfect fit if it weren't for the way the sleeves reach the tips of his fingers. The view is blurry and upside down, but Jack can see that Brock's got the sleeves pulled down enough that they cover his hands entirely. Brock's head is down, bottom half of his face pushed against the sleeves of the sweater, and all Jack can see of his face is his eyes peeking out of the circle of his arms. They're red-rimmed, like Brock's been –

“Stop fucking staring,” Brock snaps, turning his face away from Jack's view and covering his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. “Prick.” Brock's voice is muffled, but Jack can hear that tell-tale breaking at the end of the last syllable.

“Got it,” Jack says, closing his eyes against the lamp's glare again. He takes a deep breath before asking, “how did you get in?”

“Picked the lock.” Brock's voice sounds less muffled; Jack assumes he's stopped hiding his face now that he doesn't have an audience. He sounds nonchalant, like picking locks is something you'd do every day.

“Okay,” Jack breathes, letting it slide for now. “Mind turnin' the light off for me?”

“Fuck you,” Brock says, his usual attitude making a full comeback. His voice sounds closer, too. Jack can hear shuffling, the sound of fabric against leather, and before he can even think of opening his eyes there's a solid weight on his stomach and the air's been knocked out of him in a rush.

The light had been burning into the backs of his eyelids, but now there's just a solid darkness. Jack opens his eyes, looking down at his stomach. Brock's got a bare foot planted directly in the middle of Jack's stomach. He's momentarily distracted by how _delicate_ Brock's feet are – his toes aren't very long, and his toenails are smooth and proportionate to the size of his toes, too. He's got the prettiest arches, not too high or too low, and his ankles are as fine boned as his wrists. The distraction fades when Brock puts more of his weight into stepping down on Jack's stomach.

Jack looks up and there's Brock, upside down and staring down at him with the most contempt Jack has ever seen in the face of someone who'd been obviously crying. His lip is curled, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. Jack would feel a pang of anger at being looked at that way if it weren't for the image of Brock's balled up fists at his sides, the sleeves of the sweater obviously clenched in his fists. The air of intimidation Brock is trying to pull off is ruined by how _young_ he looks. Jack almost wants to laugh, but he lets Brock think he's getting somewhere. He meets Brock's gaze with a placid expression, keeping his own air of stoicism regardless of the fact he's laying on the floor. The more Jack looks at Brock this way, the more he just looks like he's pouting.

“You look like shit,” Brock says, “and I'm not sorry about your face.”

“Feel like shit, too,” Jack mumbles. His eyes are slipping closed, exhaustion and intoxication setting in the longer he lays on the floor like this. “Jus' wanna go to bed.”

Brock's expression shifts at that, brow getting less furrowed and edging more into a look of concern. Jack's eyes may be half closed, but he doesn't miss the way Brock bites his bottom lip in consternation.

The pressure on Jack's stomach disappears, and Jack makes a quiet 'oof' sound at the feeling. He feels Brock nudging at his side with his toes. “Get up, then. You look stupid on the floor, anyway.”

Jack sighs, trying and failing to get himself into a position where he can pick himself up off the floor. He looks up at Brock, green eyes wide and imploring, and smirks inwardly at the way Brock's own eyes get bigger at the sight of Jack looking at him that way.

“Need you to help me,” Jack says, holding out his arms like he's asking Brock to come into his embrace.

“Oh my fucking god,” Brock growls, rolling his eyes, but he leans down to grasp one of Jack's hands in his own and pulls them both up.

Jack uses their closeness to his advantage, pulling Brock into a tight hug. He leans into Brock, putting almost all of his weight into it, almost sending both of them crashing onto the floor all over again. “Get _off_ me _,_ ” Brock growls, squirming and trying to claw his way out of Jack's hold. “You smell like a fucking whorehouse.”

“That's not very nice,” Jack chuckles, letting Brock shake him off. He watches as Brock straightens the sweater, getting a glimpse of his tan belly peeking out from where it had ridden up.

“Like I give a fuck about being nice to you right now,” Brock says, pushing past Jack to get into the kitchen. He rummages around in the cupboards, taking out a tall glass and bringing it to the sink. When he notices Jack is watching him, Brock glares at him. “You wanted to go to bed, so go to fucking bed. I'm not tucking you in.”

Jack gives into Brock's demands, turning in the direction of his bedroom. He realizes he underestimated how drunk he is when he accidentally crashes face first into a wall. He's lucky enough to hit it dead-on rather than smushing his cheek into the wall, and it's just his nose that takes the impact.

He hears Brock swearing behind him and the sound of the faucet turning off. There's a hand tugging at the sleeve of his jacket and he's being herded into the bedroom by an even angrier Brock.

“How much did you even drink, you fucking – you're unbelievable. Tell me you left your car there. Where did you even go? I've been waiting for four fucking hours. I'm not doing this again, you ungrateful prick.”

Brock doesn't stop there but Jack doesn't hear the rest. His head is swimming again, and he's back to feeling like he's going to throw up. He's pushed down to a sitting position on the edge of his bed and Brock is in front of him, standing between Jack's knees, glass of water in hand. He pushes it into Jack's grasp, in turn lifting Jack's arm up so the rim of the glass is against Jack's lips.

“Drink.”

Jack doesn't immediately comply, and Brock grabs Jack's jaw with his thumb and index finger. He puts enough pressure on Jack's already battered face that Jack's mouth opens in a pained gasp, allowing Brock to push the glass of water further against Jack's mouth. “ _Drink_ , you stupid fucking mother _fucker._ Do you want a hangover? Are you even hearing _anything_ I'm saying?”

Jack takes the glass in hand, draining all of it in one go. He raises an eyebrow at Brock, holding the empty glass out to him.

Brock takes the glass, somehow pulling off sheepish and furious at the same time, making Jack smile as he watches Brock put the empty glass on the night table.

“Thank you,” Brock mumbles. “I don't know why you have to – what the fuck!”

Jack's wrapped his arms around Brock's waist, his face buried in Brock's stomach. He breathes in, smelling a mixture of the scent of his closet and Brock's own scent. He smiles against the fabric, gently rubbing his bruised cheek against the softness.

Brock, shocked into stillness, is shifting in Jack's grasp. Jack expects to be shoved off again, but Brock surprises him by bringing his hands up to cradle Jack's head in his hands. Brock cards his fingers through Jack's hair, pulling it out of its usual slicked-back style. He rearranges Jack's hair so it's curling more naturally around his ears and the sides of his neck. It's soothing, Jack thinks. Brock's fingers are dexterous and capable but so delicate, too.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Brock running his fingers through all of Jack's hair, until his fingers still and Jack can feel him shaking slightly. When Jack looks up, he's not surprised in the slightest to see Brock's lip trembling and his eyes tearing up.

Jack opens his mouth to speak, but Brock beats him to it.

“I'm sorry, okay?! I didn't – I shouldn't have – your _face_ , I – you said –” Brock takes a breath, like he's trying to calm himself down enough to stop stuttering. Jack waits patiently. Brock opens his mouth again, ready to speak, but his expression crumbles and he bursts into tears.

Jack takes a few precious seconds to watch the tears rolling down Brock's cheeks, committing this memory along with the rest. He reaches up, taking Brock's face in his hands. He thumbs away the tears, and inside he's sad to see them go. Brock hiccups, visibly forcing himself to calm down. It doesn't work very well, but Jack can't fault him for trying.

“Look at me,” Jack says, rubbing a thumb against Brock's pouting lips. “C'mon, look. You can do it.” Brock looks, and when his eyes fall on Jack's bruised cheek, he looks a moment away from falling apart again. Jack gently repositions Brock's gaze to meet his own eyes. “I'm fine. It's a hell of a bruise but I'm not broken. Daddy's made of stronger stuff than that, ain't he?”

Brock makes a face at that, making Jack laugh. He looks like he's on the way to calming down, until he feels Jack shift his palm against Brock's cheek. His eyes widen, and he reflexively pulls on Jack's hair where his fingers are still buried in Jack's hair. He's about to go off on another stuttering apology, but this time Jack beats him to the punch. “That's okay, too,” Jack says. “You know I hate you smokin', and that's not okay, but this time we'll forget about it. Alright?”

Brock nods, and Jack rewards him with a smile so bright it makes Brock blush through the ruddiness in his cheeks from crying.

Jack pulls Brock down to eye level, pressing a kiss to the middle of his forehead. The closeness flips a switch in Brock that was already halfway there, and he climbs into Jack's lap. He wraps his arms and legs around Jack, somehow making it work while Jack is still sitting on the edge of the bed. Jack stands, lifting Brock in his arms and waiting for him to wrap his legs around Jack's waist. Brock pushes his face into the crook of Jack's neck, his soft hair brushing against Jack's cheek; it doesn't hurt, thankfully.

Pulling the bed covers down, Jack settles them both under the blankets. He raises an arm for Brock to duck under, bringing him closer to his chest. He can feel tears on Brock's cheeks again through his t-shirt, and when he looks down, Brock is looking down and avoiding Jack's gaze.

“If you keep goin' like that we're both gonna wake up with a headache,” Jack says.

“At least I didn't do it to myself, you dumbass,” Brock mumbles, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his sweater. He looks up at Jack, eyes red. “Please, just,” he starts, but he closes his eyes in the middle of his sentence. “Don't say that again.” When he opens his eyes again, Jack is taken aback by the pleading in his gaze. “Okay?”

“I won't,” Jack says, settling down and closing his eyes. He hears a sniffle from Brock. “I _promise_ I won't. Go to sleep now.”

Brock doesn't answer, and Jack takes that as confirmation that Brock's accepted his answer. He hugs Brock tighter to him, feeling the alcohol push him towards a deep sleep.

 

In the darkness, Brock listens to Jack's breathing deepen and even out. He untangles one of his arms from Jack's embrace. Lifting the sleeve of his sweater, he looks down at the finger shaped bruises left on his wrist. It's nothing compared to what he'd given Jack, and he knows he's made of stuff just as strong Jack is. The bruise isn't even much, anyway. He's taken bullets in worse places.

Brock sighs, pulling the sleeve back down over his wrist. He rubs the softness of the fabric over the tender skin, the feeling soothing him into sleep, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @ usopp :^)


End file.
